Marjorie Barrick Museum of Art volunteer Heather Lovato has been thinking about the Perception exhibition. She writes—

I.

Many childhood memories float to the surface as I continue to think about Curtain (2005): my grandmother's table runners and doilies; the way whatever was on my wrist would get stuck on the knots, my cats that would stretch against a hanging fabric and get their claws stuck in its material. Curtain by Cindy Wright stimulates my unspoken feeling of want or desire, as a means of wanting to see the reference in its full glory, or perhaps wanting to know the artist's intentions. It is a contradictory work; it is a curtain, yet there is no fiber and there is no window or area to shade against; there is only paint and canvas and tiny brushstrokes imitating the nature of the simplicity of a curtain. 

Everything that I feel for this work does not live on the surface of my brain. The work has permeated every cell and settled within my bones since I first viewed it in that back gallery. Curtain is sentimental, a mimic of the calm emotions of my childhood that were very few and far between. It also creates a desire to see more, to see what extends beyond the edges of the canvas; to see the actual physical curtain as a whole, rather than only the small frame of focus the artist deemed the ‘whole work’ and their mimicry of the fabric. I think it may seem rudimentary to some; it is simply a closeup of a curtain- but regardless, it somehow pulls more from me than I would’ve thought from just hearing the name. I wish I knew what the artist was thinking as they created this work. It is effortless yet simultaneously intricate; the knots of the physical curtain took time to create and develop into what it became, yet the function of a curtain is to hang in front of a pane of glass and shield the inside space from light or the prying eyes of the outside world. What is the function of the curtain that is also not a curtain?

I think my feelings of want and desire and yearning to understand have developed over weeks of circling back to it, weeks of seeing the image in my mind's eye as I drive to the museum, as I lay down at night, and all the moments in between. The painting has been the thought that I circle back to when I am reminded of its hue of blue and its detailed simplicity. This curtain will not develop in the same way other curtains might; it won’t take on the scents of the space it hangs in, it won’t become heavy with particulates or yellowed with the thickness of the air of time. It might age as other art does, but it will not age as a true curtain does.

II.

Empty (2020) by Dirk Staschke allows me to imagine what could’ve been—or had been—there. Its deep contours imitate the functionality of a vase, something that has been amended over time. A vase has changed its use over the centuries—through necessity and ornament, and through function and feature. As it currently stands, we know it to hold flowers or arrangements. 

Empty reads much like a still life painting. And yet, it is not a still life. It is made of clay and there is no true canvas and there is no paint and it is simply a structure, yet it hangs on a wall in an upright manner with the subject as its focus, similarly to that of a still life. It is a still life, yet it is not. It is not, yet it is. 

And what of that empty space in its center? It reads much like a spot perfect for a flower arrangement, yet there are no flowers. Were there once flowers? It seems like the empty space is a gaping hole, one that either was once filled, or one that could be filled. It reminds me of having a full of life person in your realm of existence, but then they no longer are; you see them in the places they once filled and you note that absence, but have no control over it. They are no longer there. The flowers are no longer there. But were they ever really there, or is it your brain trying to fill the gaps with what could be there based on what it expects to be there. How is one supposed to perceive this work that is and simultaneously is not so many things? 

I am reminded of the vase I once had in my office; the one that I would put energy and love into. Every month, I would spend time buying new flowers and pour every ounce of my focus into trimming the stems, removing the stray dead leaves or petals, and arranging them into a beautiful arrangement to quietly proclaim a stilted but evolving self-love. At that point in my life, I was very reliant on myself (as if that isn’t true now) and tried to find ways to remind myself to be gentle and kind and loving, as that was not something that came all too easily to me. The vase that held my flowers is nothing like the one in the work, and despite that I am still irrevocably reminded. The emptiness this vase holds replicates the emptiness between the transitions of the bouquets. 

I think not only with my own bouquets, but also the one (or lack of one) in Empty, the imprint of them has been stamped into my mind and I yearn to see their bloom.

III.

Channel (2006) by Chad Brown makes me feel like I was beamed into its rocky landscape like I was in an episode of Star Trek, with the way that the horizontal lines across the canvas are disrupted in the center by a bright vertical column. I don’t match the style of the work, with its blurred yet precise lines, geometric nature, and vibrant colors, and yet I reside in its grooves and changes in path. Oddly, this work is rigid and purposeful in its linework, dissimilarly to his other pieces that house sporadic lines and inconsistencies. Post-creation of this one, his works shifted to ones with ambitious and focused lines. 

It seems like 2007 was quite a transitionary period for Chad Brown, and honestly I can relate. While I hadn’t yet perfected my linework or developed a plethora of creations, my brother was born, so an axis of my life certainly shifted. I remember the hardships and transitions of that year, and how I shifted as a being (one not quite capable of critical thinking yet) and it makes me wonder how Brown’s life shifted. Did he move and therefore change his scenery? Did he get a new job? Did he take a random art class and decide that he wanted to completely alter his style? 

Yet again, I yearn to peer into the mind of an artist and see the little gears turning and the little workers moving the thoughts about. I wish to shadow their brain and learn their ways. What makes this work become what it is and what we know? How did they envision it before they put the brush to the canvas? I think I also wish to see the reference and how the artist chose to take creative liberties, as well as how they captured its essence. As time passes, these questions fade, but the work stays imprinted in my mind's eye and I develop a fondness for it rather than a permanent stance embedded in inquisition. 

Will this be the case for every work I come across in my lifetime, or is Channel a special exception? 

Image: Cindy Wright, Curtain (detail), 2005, Oil on linen. Photo courtesy Krystal Ramirez